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Winner of the 2010 Kids Own Australian Literature Awards - Fiction for years 7-9

Book Description

A story of adventure, ball control and hope.

Jamal and Bibi have a dream. To lead Australia to soccer glory in
the next World Cup.

But first they must face landmines, pirates, storms and assassins.

Can Jamal and his family survive their incredible journey and get to
Australia?

Sometimes, to save the people you love, you have to go overboard.

About The Author

Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he
was sixteen. He was a frozen-chicken thawer, sugar-mill rolling-stock
unhooker, fashion-industry trainee, student, department-store Santa, TV
producer, newspaper columnist and screenwriter. Then he had a wonderful
experience. He wrote a novel for young people. Now he's a children's
author.

Normally I would. I'm known for it. Ask any of the seven kids in my
school. 'Jamal's a good dribbler,' they'll say, 'and a very brilliant
passer.' If I had an unexploded shell for every goal I've set up for
other people, I could go into the scrap metal business.

But this time I want to score myself. I want to give a desert
warrior whoop and smack the ball with all my strength and watch it whiz
past Yusuf like a Scud missile.

Just once.

'Jamal,' screams Zoltan, flapping his arms like a buzzard with
belly-ache. 'Over here.'

I ignore him. I decide to shoot low and try for a curve. You have
to with Yusuf. He's really good at diving saves, specially for a kid
with only one leg.

I can hear Aziz and Mussa thudding towards me.

I steady myself and shoot.

Hopeless.

I've sliced it. Just like last time. And all the times before that.

The ball trickles towards Yusuf. He doesn't even pretend it's a
good shot. Doesn't dive on it or anything. Just picks it up and chucks
it back over my head.

'Weak,' laughs Aziz behind me.

Zoltan is looking at me as though an American air strike has hit me
in the head and scrambled my brains.

'Jamal,' he says. 'I was unmarked.'

'Sorry,' I say, waiting for him and Aziz and Mussa to make unkind
comments about midfield players who think they're strikers but aren't.

They don't.

Nobody says a word.

I realise they're not even looking at me. They're staring at
something behind me. Their faces are frozen. Their mouths are open.
They're in shock.

For a horrible moment I think it's the government. Soccer isn't
officially banned, but the government doesn't like people playing it. I
think they're embarrassed that we don't have any international stars
here in Afghanistan.

I turn and look fearfully at the figure behind us.

It's not what I thought. It's not an angry man in black robes with
a long beard and an even longer swishing cane. It's something even
scarier. A kid in a very familiar dress and headcloth.

'Bibi,' I gasp.

'Eeek,' croaks Aziz, face slack with amazement. 'It's your sister.'

For a moment there's silence except for the wind blowing in off the
open desert and the distant sound of someone drilling bomb fragments
out of their wall in the village.

The others are still backing away and looking at me and I realise I
have to do something. This person putting us all in danger is a member
of my family.

My first thought is to yell at her. Then I remember she's only
nine. Two years ago I used to get distracted and forget things too.
Bibi must have forgotten that girls aren't allowed to leave the house
without a parent. She must have forgotten that females have to keep
their faces covered at all times out of doors. And it must have slipped
her mind that girls playing soccer is completely, totally and
absolutely against the law.

'Do something,' Aziz mutters at me.

I open my mouth to remind Bibi about all this, then close it.
There's no time for talk. She's only metres away from us now, eyes
glinting as she dribbles the ball with her bare feet. If a government
official out for a walk in the desert sees this, he'll be slashing us
with his cane before I can say 'she's only nine.' And then the
government police will come round to our place and drag Mum and Dad off
for not controlling their daughter.

'Tackle her,' I say to the others.

They stare at me, confused.

'Get the ball off her,' I say.

Now they understand. We all lunge at Bibi. Without slowing down she
sidesteps Aziz, weaves past Mussa, and flicks the ball between my legs.

'That's not fair,' I yell as I sprint after her. 'You promised
you'd only do soccer in your bedroom. You promised.'

She ignores me and heads for goal. Yusuf, uncertain, crouches on
the goal line, eyes on the ball.

Zoltan has caught up with her.

'Bibi,' he yells. 'Over here. Pass.'

I can't believe it. All Zoltan can think about is getting a shot at
goal. Suddenly I don't want Bibi to pass to him. I want her to have a
shot herself.

'Me,' screams Zoltan.

Bibi ignores him. Without steadying herself or pausing to pull up
her skirt, she shoots.

It's a great shot, low and hard.

Yusuf dives, but the ball scuds past his fingers and hurtles into
the rocket crater behind him.

'Yes,' I hear myself yell.

'Goal for Afghanistan,' yells Bibi.

Panting, she gives me a proud grin. I grin back. Then I remember
I'm her older brother and it's my job to be stern with her when she's
risking everyone's safety, including hers.

Aziz and Mussa and Zoltan are staring dumbstruck after the ball,
which has disappeared over the other side of the rocket crater.

'I'm going home,' says Aziz.

'Me too,' says Mussa.

'Me too,' says Zoltan.

The three of them sprint away.

'I think they're going home to practise in their bedrooms,' says
Bibi. She doesn't seem to realise I'm giving her a very stern glare.
'I'll get the ball,' she says, 'then we can play one a side with Yusuf
in goal.'

Before I can stop her, she's running towards the rocket crater.

'Bibi,' I yell. 'Come back.'

'Get after her,' says Yusuf, still sprawled in the dust.

Normally I'd help Yusuf to his foot after a big dive like that, but
there's no time.

I sprint after Bibi.

On the other side of the rocket crater is the open desert.

Bibi must have forgotten why we don't go there.

Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. He was a frozen-chicken thawer, sugar-mill rolling-stock unhooker, fashion-industry trainee, student, department-store Santa, TV producer, newspaper columnist and screenwriter. Then he had a wonderful experience. He wrote a novel for young people. Now he's one of Australia's most popular children's authors.